


The Losers Take New York!

by foureyed_tozier



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Mike Hanlon, Bisexual Bill Denbrough, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Blood, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Excessive Swearing, F/M, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Stanley Uris, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Pennywise, Multi, Pansexual Beverly Marsh, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, gallons of the stuff, i'm just... so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foureyed_tozier/pseuds/foureyed_tozier
Summary: The Losers Club lives in a 4-bed, 2-bath house in New York, attending college. Drama ensues and ships sail.





	1. Home

Ben wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped back. “Et viola,” He said, looking the room up and down. “Casa de Losers is ready.”

“I can’t believe we got this place,” Beverly said from behind him. Ben turned towards her, an involuntary smile spreading across his face at the sight of her paint-smeared face and glowing red hair. She put her hands on her hips and looked around with a hint of pride. “Quite a catch, if I do say so myself.” 

“We get it, Beverly,” Richie said from the kitchen. “You’re a genius for finding us a place.” 

The house was mostly empty at this point, the furniture nonexistent but piled with boxes pulled from Bill’s hand-me-down minivan and Mike’s beat-up truck. There were several piles, some of which Eddie and Richie were currently moving into the kitchen to unload- dishes and pots and the like- and some of which Beverly and Ben himself were moving up to the various bedrooms. Stanley would be there in about ten minutes, then the Losers would be complete.

“Alright,” Bill said, pulling a box labeled BILL’S CLOTHES out of the stacks and using it as a chair. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it against his thigh, beginning to scribble on it. “Here are the room arrangements: Beverly gets the master suite-”

“Yes!” Beverly cheered with an exuberant fist pump. 

“-because it’s got an attached bathroom,” Bill continued, as if noody had interrupted. “Ben and Mike get the bedroom next to her. Across from them will be Stan and myself.” Bill clicked his pen shut and tucked it into his pocket. “Richie and Eddie get the ground floor bedroom.” 

“Why do they get to be closest to the kitchen?” Mike griped. 

“Because do we really want to hear Richie tripping down the stairs at approximately 4am every morning for breakfast? No, no we do not,” Bill said. “They’ve got the earliest classes of us all.” 

“Whatever,” Mike grumbled, opening their small cooler and pulling out a carbonated water. 

There was a sharp honking sound from outside, and Ben turned towards the open front door so fast his back popped. A sleek black car pulled into the driveway and the ignition turned off. Mike brandished the van like a weapon, and Bev pushed herself up to one leg and crane-kicked the air. “I know karate!” She screeched, brandishing her hands in a karate-chop motion. 

Stan leaned out the window of his gleaming Nissan Altima. “It’s just me, assholes,” He yelled, taking off his sunglasses and smirking at them. 

“Stan the Man!” Richie crowded into the doorway behind Ben and Bev, shading his eyes to peer at Stanley. “Welcome home.” 

———

Bev pushed the glasses up her nose. “Two guys, chillin’ in a hot tub, 5 feet apart ‘cause they’re not gay,” She screeched in an awful imitation of Richie’s voice. 

“Give those back, Bev,” Richie said, laughing. He squinted at her from his perch on the counter, making grabbing motions at the air in an hopeless attempt to steal them back. “I can’t see shit without them.” 

“Wait, wait,” Beverly said, ducking underneath Richie’s swiping fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?” She flipped up her middle finger, grinning smugly. 

“All I can see is a Beverly-shaped blob!” Richie exclaimed. “Gimmeeeee. Gimme or imma wake up Eddie!” 

Beverly sighed heavily. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to be lectured about lung cancer.” She took off the glasses and handed them back to Richie, who immediately slipped them on, blinking and widening his eyes exaggeratedly at Beverly. 

Beverly grabbed Richie’s hand and tugged him down to the floor. “C’mon, we can’t smoke in here or he’ll bite off our heads.” They slipped out the back door, already lighting their cigarettes as they went. 

Beverly took a long drag and exhaled a puff of smoke directly in Richie’s face. He choked, pounding on his chest and scowling at her while Beverly’s peals of laugher echoed off the houses. 

“Not-” Cough. “Not funny, Bevvie.”

“I beg to differ,” Bev argued, taking another drag of her cigarette and blowing a ring.

“Hmph.” He took a proper drag on his cigarette, tilting his head up to look at the stars. 

A few rustling noises came from the house, then the door swung open and a tired-looking Bill poked his head out, hair ruffled and shirt wrinkled. 

“Hey, guys,” he said sleepily. “Can I have one?” 

Bill didn’t smoke often enough to buy cigarettes, so he just nabbed his from Beverly or Richie, something he would’ve felt guilty about if the other two didn’t smoke so much already, Beverly was sure. 

“Sorry, did we wake you up?” She asked as Richie passed Bill a cigarette, lighting it with his own. 

“Yeah. You woke everyone up,” Bill said, pointing the cigarette accusingly at Beverly before taking a drag. “I heard Eddie mumbling curses on my way out.” 

“Probably jerking off,” Richie said dismissively, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the wind. 

“Beep beep, Richie,” Beverly snapped. “I don’t wanna picture sweet little Eddie doing that.” 

Richie snorted. “I’ll have you know, I once caught sweet little Eddie-”

“Lalalalala!” Bev squealed, calming her hands over her ears. 

Richie’s mouth moved some more, and Bev heard Bill’s laugh over her ear protection, followed by a swat to the arm. 

She cautiously drew her hands away as Bill said, “I did not need to know that, Richie.”

“Knowledge is power,” Richie said loftily. 

Beverly laughed, extinguishing her cigarette in the damp grass, and for the first time  
in her life, felt home. 

———

Bill awoke to the sound of a piano. It was Für Elise, and for a split second he was 11, his brother was sitting next to him, and the smell of wax filled his nose. 

He sat straight up and the heavy sleeping bag fell off his chest. The sound of it hitting the floor brought him back to reality. New York. His bedroom. Home. 

“Bill? You okay?” Stan paused in his careful arrangement of his curls to look at Bill, features creased in concern. 

Bill made a strangled noise. “T-turn it uh-off.”

Stan’s features creased more. “What?” 

“Turn it off!” Bill launched himself across the floor and scrabbled for Stan’s iPhone, ripping the auxiliary cord out of it and tossing the speaker to the side. 

“Careful, Bill, you’re going to break it,” Stan said, crossing the room and picking up his phone. He inspected the auxiliary port and tucked in his back pocket before kneeling by Bill. “Are you okay?” 

Bill turned towards Stan, and he crinkled his nose a little. Bill probably still reeked of cigarette smoke, but he couldn’t care less st the moment, his mind whirling rapidly. 

“Th-th-that- damnit,” Bill growled, shaking his head and taking a deep breath. Stan’s smooth face was beginning to fold back into concern. “That was the song that Mom was playing when Georgie died,” Bill said softly, and Stan’s face smoothed into understanding and sympathy. 

“Oh, Bill,” He said, and he let Bill crush him into an embrace and cry into his clean polo shirt, even though Bill knew he hated emotions, and as Bill wiped his tears on Stan’s shoulder, he felt home. 

———

Eddie hummed quietly while he waited for the coffee pot to fill up, swinging his legs as he sat on the counter and looked out the kitchen window over their backyard. 

It was early, much earlier than most of the others got up (or left their rooms, at least- Mike and Richie both naturally woke up at ungodly hours of the morning and did who-knows-what until the others were up and about), so the house was quiet, the only sound an occasional creak from upstairs and Eddie’s humming. Once the others were up, the place was likely to be full of noise, of laughter and the opening of boxes and footsteps, full of the sounds of life. 

As if the thought (or the smell of brewing coffee) had summoned him, Mike appeared at the top of the stairs. “Coffee?” He asked hopefully, and Eddie smiled, giving him an affirmative ‘mmmhm’. “Awesome,” Mike said with a grin, taking the stairs two at a time. He landed with a loud thump at the foot, causing Eddie to giggle and shush him. 

“You’ll wake the others!” Eddie hissed, but he was smiling. 

“Screw the others,” Mike declared. “Except, you know. Not really.” He crinkled his nose as Eddie dropped to his feet and poured two mugs of coffee.

“Right,” Eddie agreed. Although you wouldn’t mind screwing one of them, his traitorous mind whispered, and he shook his head to clear it, passing Mike’s Disneyland mug to him as he climbed up onto the counter, legs swinging.

“Thanks,” Mike said, sipping his coffee and wandering out of the kitchen to the living room, most likely looking through what was left of the boxes on the ground level. 

“I knew it was a good idea to unpack the coffee first,” Richie declared, drawing Eddie’s attention from Mike’s retreating back and instead to the doorway in which Richie now leaned, running his hands through his tousled curls. 

“A stroke of genius on your part,” Eddie deadpanned, sipping his coffee.

"You can't say it like that and be drinking the coffee!" Richie exclaimed, pushing himself to a standing position and walking past Eddie to the coffee pot. 

"Sure I can," Eddie said as Richie poured himself coffee in his own mug. "I just did, didn't I?"

"Not what I meant, asshole," Richie said. He leaned on the counter next to Eddie and tilted his head, looking at him with a small, sleepy smile. "Cute!" He said sleepily. "Cute, cute cute." He reached out an arm for Eddie's arm lazily, which was easily slapped away. 

"Fuck off, it's too early for this shit," Eddie grumbled with a pout. Richie simply smiled more, sipping from his coffee mug. “Quit looking at me like that!” Eddie whined, setting down his coffee mug and crossing his arms. 

“Like what? Like you’re the cutest thing in the world? ‘Cause you are,” Richie drawled with a grin. Eddie rolled his eyes, blushing. 

Beverly skipped down the stairs, hair twisted into a messy bun and makeup on point. She twirled her key ring around her finger and beamed at the pair. “How do I look? Ready for my first day at work?” She struck a pose, one hand on her hip and looking over her shoulder with a sexy pout. 

Eddie grinned. “You look perfect, Bev. Like always.” 

Beverly grinned. “Thanks!” She twirled around and sauntered out the door. She paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob. She cast an uncertain look over her shoulder. “Wish me luck!” She said lightly, but a tiny tremor in her voice gave away her nervousness, and Eddie’s smile widened. 

“Good luck, Bev,” He called. 

“Break a leg!” Richie screeched obnoxiously, cupping his hands over his mouth. 

Beverly smiled and closed the door, sealing her out of sight. 

A happy sigh echoed through the house, and Eddie turned his attention to the staircase. “Hello, Ben.” He frowned. “Where’s Stan and Bill? They’re usually up before Ben.” 

“I dunno, but I heard them talking when I walked by,” Ben offered as he climbed down the stairs. 

“Hmm,” Eddie said as Ben joined them in the kitchen, making the small space seem crowded. Eddie sighed and rolled across the counter, dropping to his feet in the dining room near Mike. “What’re you doing?” He asked the man, who was leafing through a pamphlet. 

Mike looked up and grinned. “Making this place feel like home.” 

———

It was Mike’s idea to repaint the house. 

The moving van with the furniture was moving all the way from fucking Derry and wouldn’t be there for several days, so he figured, why the fuck not? Might as well do it when there’s not a shit ton of furniture to cover, right? 

The others had wholeheartedly agreed. “We should start with the bedrooms,” Eddie said, “‘Cause we know with the roommate situation that’s gonna be a nightmare.” 

“Right,” Mike agreed, “but there’s 7 of us to argue about the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom.” 

“Plus, my room’s not a problem,” Beverly piped up. Mike turned to look at her as she pulled the hair tie from her hair, letting her long hair tumble around her shoulders. 

“Yeah. I guess you guys are right,” Eddie said, mouth screwing to one side. 

“Wait, Eddie,” Mike said, scrambling for his phone. He switched it on and pointed at Eddie, pressing record. “Say that again so I can get it on video.” 

Eddie flipped him off, and Mike turned off the camera, laughing. 

———

A few days later, Mike stood in the center of the living room, hands on his hips, a small smile playing on his face. 

The Losers has chosen a pretty light grey for their living/dining room walls, and Beverly was in the kitchen painting it teal, but that’s not what Mike was smiling about. 

Mike was smiling at Richie and Eddie. 

Eddie stopped in his painting to get more paint on the roller, and Richie quickly stopped as well, setting his roller down on the paint tray and grasping Eddie by the waist, causing him to squeal and drop his paint roller. 

Eddie giggled, kicking and thrashing. “Put me down, you asshat!” He squealed, and Richie threw back his head and laughed, his smile lighting up the room a little bit more, and Mike felt his heart swell for these two boys, even as he rushed to clean up the paint they’d gotten on the floor before it dried, because they were happy. 

———

They finished the living room and kitchen the day before the movers arrived. 

There were empty paint cans lined against one wall, rollers resting in corners and on the counters, and tape lining the edges of the walls. Every single window and door was thrown open and Richie had turned on a small desk fan he had dug from one of his boxes to get the air moving a little. 

The movers frowned, eyes darting around the room as they shifted Beverly’s heavy bedframe in their muscular arms. “Uh, where does this go?” One asked Mike, a slightly hesitant lilt to his voice. 

“Oh, it’s up the stairs, in the biggest bedroom- here, I’ll just show you,” Mike said, waving his hand and skipping up the stairs. 

Beverly’s happy squeal nearly popped his eardrums as the bedframe was put in place, and even though they hadn’t finished painting before the movers arrived, Mike still felt home. 

———

“Oh, Eddie,” Richie moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Fuck, that’s good.” 

Eddie blushed, ducking his head. “Shut up. It’s just food.” 

“It’s only the best food I’ve ever eaten,” Richie declared, jabbing his fork into the spaghetti with an unnecessary amount of force and twirling it in the noodles. 

“Richie’s obnoxiousness aside, it really is good, Eddie,” Stan said, looking up at him from the floor. 

“Yeah,” Beverly agreed. She sat in the single armchair of the house, the edges worn from use and a few brightly colored patches sewn over it’s gaping holes. It had been a hand-me-down from Richie’s dad, and the only furniture besides the beds that they owned. “Better than sex.” She took a large bite of it as if to prove her point. 

“I don’t know about that,” Stan said dubiously. “Sex is pretty damn good.” 

There was a moment of shocked silence before Richie began to shriek with laughter. His laughter prompted the others to laugh, even Stan cracking a small, self-satisfied smile. “Stan the man gets of a good one!” He said, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes. “Oh, that was solid gold.”

Once everyone had calmed down, Mike shrugged. “I dunno. I’d say it was better than sex,” He said, and Eddie smiled, tucking his feet underneath himself on the counter. 

“Mike, you don’t even like sex, so shut your whore mouth,” Richie said, and Eddie pushed him off the counter. 

———

Richie leaned over and gently brushed his lips over Eddie’s, exhaling softly. 

Eddie inhaled and drew away, giggling. Richie didn’t suppress a sideways grin. He’s really fucking cute when he giggles, Richie thought, his mind slightly sluggish. 

“I can’t believe you’re letting us do this,” Beverly said. She was giggling, too. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” 

“I’ll try anything once,” Eddie said, and Richie didn’t think he imagined him glancing over at Richie, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. 

“Even pussy?” Beverly asked, arching an eyebrow. She passed the joint to Richie. 

“I did! Remember Myra?” Eddie tapped his lips, and Richie leaned over to repeat the earlier action, exhaling as Eddie inhaled. Richie passed the joint back to Beverly. 

“Ugh. Yeah. Why? Did you-” 

Eddie cut her off. “Oh, we tried. But I couldn’t get it up.” He giggled again, and Richie’s heart grew three times like that green guy in the cartoon. The Grinch. Right. 

Beverly giggled too, clapping a hand over her mouth, but the giggles turned into full-on gales of laughter. Eddie was laughing too, bent-over and snorting. He’d finally gotten over the first few tries, where he was coughing and his lungs were burning, and was seriously high now. Richie smiled at him. 

“Stop staring, you creep,” Beverly said, playfully punching his arm and breathing out a few smoke rings. 

“Aha!” The door to Richie and Eddie’s room was thrown open so hard it nearly smacked against the wall. Bill stood in the doorway, eyes bright. “Oh my god! I knew I smelled something, but...” he shook his head in disbelief, a wide smile stretching across his lips. “Eddie?” 

“Marijuana has many health benefits,” Eddie informed him, and Bill laughed. 

“Stan! You were totally right!” Bill called. There was loud footsteps, a heavy thud, and some cursing before Stan emerged next to Bill. 

“Holy shit, I was!” He exclaimed. “Mike! You owe me five dollars!”

“What?!” Mike threw himself in as well, surveying the scene. “Ah, fuck. Eddie, why must you betray me in this way?” He pulled a five dollar bill out of his pocket and passed it to Stan. 

“Wait, were you all together?” Eddie asked. 

“Yeah,” Mike said. “We were listening to [hippy band].” 

“So what’s Ben doing?” Eddie asked, frowning. 

“Oh, he passed out forever ago,” Mike said, sitting between Bev and Eddie.

Richie looked around with a lazy smile. “Well, are you going to join us or not?”

“Fuck yeah we are,” Bill said, sitting next to Bev and accepting the joint. 

Stan closed the door and sat between Bill and Richie in leiu of a response. 

Time felt like it was ticking through molasses, and Richie grinned against Eddie’s mouth as he exhaled once more, because this was right. This was home. 

———

“And I just don’t know what to do,” Stan finished, looking at him with a hint of desperation. 

Richie frowned thoughtfully. “Well, if you like him, then just tell him,” He said with a shrug. 

Stan glared. “You of all people know that’s not how it works,” he said. 

Richie straightened, looking alarmed. “What? I don’t know what you mean-”

“Oh, please,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “We’ve all seen the way you look at Eddie.” 

Richie’s mouth opened and closed for a few moments, and Stan felt a triumphant thrill. I’m right. “Fine. Maybe that’s not how it works,” Richie said finally. “But... you have to try. I mean, don’t end up like me.” 

“You mean the longtime crush he’s not acting on?”

Richie sputtered. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stan, he doesn’t like me.” 

Stan rolled his eyes and sipped his cup of water. 

———

The door to Stan and Bill’s room swung open. “Hey, Bill,” Stan greeted. 

“Not Bill,” Bev said. She flopped onto Stan’s bed and propped up her head on the palm of her hand. “Watcha doooin?” 

Stan paused in his rigorous curl-arranging. “Why are you bothering me? Where’s Ben?” 

Beverly sighed, annoyed. “He’s studying already. School hasn’t even started yet!” 

“It’s a lot of work to become an architect,” Stan said with a shrug, returning to the mirror. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Bev grumbled. 

Stan paused, and they sat in a few moments of comfortable silence. “Do you want to go out with me?” 

Stan watched Bev in the mirror as she started. “What?” 

Stan turned to look at her. “I was going to scope out the nearby bars. Do you wanna come with?” 

She brightened considerably. “Oooh, yeah! Can we bring the others?” She swung to a sitting position, feet brushing the floor. 

“Sure,” Stan said with a shrug. “See who you can convince.”

“Bill and Ben are off the table,” She said with a sigh. “I can’t believe he found someone already.” 

“Oh, come on. Audra’s probably not even straight,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “Did you see her handwriting?” 

“What does her handwriting have to do with it?” Bev asked, voice laced with laughter as she pushed herself to her feet. “Do you have a specific handwriting?” 

“Mmm, no. But my gaydar definitely went off.” 

“Gaydar?” She laughed again. “I’m gonna get Mike.”

“Okay,” Stan said, but she was already out the door. 

He turned back to his reflection and positioned a final curl. “Alright, Stan,” He told his reflection. “Prepare thyself.” 

———

He regretted the decision as soon as he stepped in the door. 

He should’ve known Bev and Mike would pick some giant, rainbow unicorn-farting shit club that they ended up in. 

He looked around the giant room with the flashing lasers and thrashing, glitter-covered bodies and scrunched his nose. “Oh, god.” 

Beverly giggled, throwing her arm over Stan’s shoulder, which required her pushing herself onto her tippy-toes. “Isn’t it great?” 

“No, this is not...” Stan crinkled his nose at a woman in elaborate S&M getup. She winked at him. “This is not my definition of great.” 

“What? This is incredible!” Mike insisted. When Stan shook his head, he scoffed. “Whatever. Bev, join me on the dance floor!” He grabbed her hand and whisked her away, and Stan was left alone at the bar. He ordered a blowjob and leaned on the sticky mahogany, thoroughly hating everything. 

“S-s-sex on the beach, please,” A familiar voice said to his left. Stan started and turned to see Bill. 

Bill’s face had the bisexual flag painted on either cheek. His chest was bare, exposing the LOSER tattoo with the blood red V over the S on his abdomen and the small paper boat on his left bicep. He was flashing his most charming grin at the topless bartender (she was wearing nothing but glitter and pasties. Pasties! God, the sanitation of the place must’ve been awful!), who blushed (really?) and giggled. 

“Bill?” Stan finally managed. 

Bill snapped his head over to him. “Stan?” His face was furrowed in shock and his tone slightly accusatory, like Stan was he one who had lied about where he was going. “W-what are you doing here?” 

“Having fun,” Stan said, although even in his own ears he could hear his blatant disgust. 

Bill laughed lightly, his eyebrows pinched and fingers starting to drum nervously on the countertop. After a moment of tense silence, he relented. “Alright, Stan, look-” 

“Where’s Audra?” Stan asked, surveying the thrashing crowd. “Or was that a lie, too?” It’s not a vindictive statement, and he hopes it doesn’t come across as one. 

Bill softened a little, taking a sip of his drink. “I dunno. She p-probably already left w-with Patty.” 

The corners of Stan’s mouth tugged into a frown. “Patty?” 

Bill looked at him sheepishly. “Her guh-girlfriend.” 

Stan laughed, not bitterly- okay, Maybe a little bitterly, he thought, because why would he lie? 

“Stan, I-”

“Bisexual, huh?” Stan said, eyeing the flags on his cheeks. “Thought you were straight.” 

Bill blushed, looking down at his hands. “I’ve nuh-never really... had a cr-crush on a guy,” He said. “Or, I th-thought I hadn’t.” 

Stan’s eyebrows flew up and he straightened, and inwardly cringed at his own overeagerness. “Oh?” He said, attempting a causal tone as he downed his own drink. “So you do?” 

Bill turned crimson, and drank most of his own drink before responding. “Yeah,” he said so quietly Stan almost didn’t hear him. 

“I’m sorry?” He asked, just to be sure. 

Bill cleared his throat and looked up, although he still didn’t quite meet Stan’s eyes. “Yes. I do.” 

Stan's heart began to pound in his throat. "Really?" The fact that voice remained calm and casual surprised him because he felt like he was being choked to death by his own pulse. 

Bill's eyes met his, and the determined glint in his eyes made Stan feel like all the blood had drained from his body. His mouth opened, and- 

"Bill?" Beverly came flying down from the dance floor, her clothes covered in glitter and paint smears on her hands. "Oh my god!" 

Mike was soon after. His face already had the double flags like Bill's, but in asexual flags. He grinned at Bill. "Shit, man! Why are you here?" 

"Audra's gay," Bill admitted. 

Mike laughed, and Bev turned to Stan. "Oh, shit you were right!" 

"Right about what?" Bill looked from Bev to Stan, brow furrowed in confusion.

"He totally called it," Bev said. 

"C'mon, did you see that 5? Of course she was," Stan said, rolling his eyes.

Bill laughed, and it sounded like the rumble of a waterfall. It sounded like safety. It sounded like home.


	2. Dreams

Ben awoke with a start. His heart was floundering in his chest and his palm ached. He had the distinct feeling that he should be running, running away from... what? 

 

 

He shook the feeling away. It was only a  **dream**. 

 

He blinked, taking in his surroundings- sleep had left him disoriented and lost in time. 

 

He was sitting at his desk, face-down on his textbook. When he sat up, the page peeled away from his skin with a sting. He sucked in a hiss and inspected the tears blurring the ink of his textbook. _Why was I crying?_

 

The thought flew from his mind as a loud bang echoed through the house- all thoughts did, replaced by pure, unadulterated panic. 

 

He grabbed his pocket knife off his desk and clenched it in his fist, standing and cautiously making his way towards his bedroom door. 

 

He didn’t get the chance to open it, because Mike threw it open, paint smeared on his cheeks and eyes bright and wild. He was singing rather tunelessly and swaying slightly. 

 

“69 bottles of beer on the wall, 69 bottles of beer,” he sang, twirling and flopping on his bed. “Sup, Benny-boy?” He drawled, propping his head up on his hand. He was speaking much, much too loud, and Ben cringed. 

 

“Jesus, Mike, what time is it?” Ben asked, checking his watch. 

 

“ ‘dunno,” Mike slurred, shrugging. His head fell off his hand and landed with a thump on the mattress. He giggled. 

 

“It’s 2am, Mike,” Ben said with a sigh. “I’ll get you some water. Go to bed,” he instructed, pointing an accusatory finger at Mike. 

 

“‘Kay,” he said agreeably, and Ben left the room, tucking his pocket knife in his back pocket as he went. 

 

He heard somebody retching into the toilet as he walked by the bathroom and flinched sympathetically. He made to open the door, but heard quiet, reassuring murmurs, and decided to leave the pair alone. 

 

He walked down the stairs to the kitchen, pondering the logic of a two-story house with both bathrooms on the top floor, when he saw her. 

 

Beverly stood over the kitchen sink. Her arms were braced against the counter, and her quiet sobbing filled the small room.

 

Ben paused. “Bev?” 

 

She started, and the sobbing abruptly stopped. She quickly whirled around. Her eyes were red, mascara smeared, and face puffy. Her mouth was twisted into a watery smile and she had vomit on her cheek. 

 

But the most noticeable development was her hair. 

 

She’d cut it all off again, much longer than the first time, but Ben felt he’d caught her midway. 

 

“Oh, Bev,” he sighed, and she began to cry again, dropping the scissors in her hand and sinking to he floor. 

 

“H-he touched my hair, Ben, he sounded just like him, acted just like him-” Words dissolved into tears again, and she shook her head rapidly, tears still flowing.

 

Ben knew what she was talking about. She’d never said it, not directly, or even implied it, but they’d known. The day she stated, almost offhandedly, that her father was going to jail, they’d all understood. 

 

_Her bruises the hair the way she’d look at someone when they touched her_

 

Ben had hated her father from that moment on, and he hated him more now, for reducing her to this sobbing mess on the kitchen floor. 

 

“Oh, Bev,” Ben repeated, because there was nothing else to say, and he took the scissors in his hand and knelt in front of her. “Here, let me fix it.” 

 

She nodded her head and leaned forward, allowing him to cut an even line into her hair, decorating the floor with chunks of scarlet that looked like blood. 

 

* * *

 

Beverly debuted her new haircut at work the next day. She put on her makeup, fluffed her hair that had been cut short like when she was 13 all over again, and walked out the door, chin held high and haters be damned, like she hadn’t gotten shitfaced and had a mental breakdown at 2am last night. 

 

She stepped in the door of Starbucks, and the place seemed to distend, grow larger and narrower, and she stilled, hand still on the doorknob, but the room snapped back into it’s normal shape. She blinked and shook her head, reaching out and touching the wall to steady herself. 

 

“Bevvie?” Her manager emerged from the back and gave her a puzzled smile. “Well, why don’t you come in and stay awhile? Nice hair, by the way,” She added. 

 

Beverly shook her head and smiled. The dizzy feeling left, and the feeling of unease slipped from her mind, like water dripping off her skin. 

 

She blinked. When had she ended up at the sink? She looked down at the basin, where water ran against her hands, then up at the mirror. 

 

In the mirror, her hair was long, and she was crying. There was blood on her face and lips, and her skin was bruised. 

 

Beverly’s hand flew to her hair. It was short, she could feel it. Her hands explored her face. Nothing. She was fine. Her reflection grinned back at her. “Ma’am?” It said, sounding concerned. “Ma’am, are you okay?” 

 

She blinked, and the world shifted. She was standing at the counter, looking at a woman who looked very much like her, when her hair was long. Her accent was vaguely British, but not quite, like she hadn’t lived there in a while. The woman wasn’t crying or injured- she gave Beverly a puzzled but charming smile. 

 

“Yes, sorry,” Beverly said. She handed the woman a cup labeled Audra. The woman smiled, and took a sip. 

 

The red liquid inside moved up the straw excruciatingly slowly, like it was clotted, like it was- 

 

_Blood_. 

 

The second the thought crossed her mind, the scene froze. 

 

Children began singing, the rhyme becoming dangerous-sounding chanting, and a single red balloon floated across her vision and paused directly in front of her eyes, a few feet away.

 

“Time to float,” a choked, burbling voice sounded, and the balloon exploded. 

 

_Blood. Blood everywhere._  The scene unfroze. The people carried on like blood wasn’t flooding the room, seeping in from every crack and pouring out from every facuet, dripping from the ceiling into their hair and sloshing on their feet and spilling out of the drains. 

 

Like it wasn’t getting in their mouths when they laughed and their hair was getting plastered to their face. 

 

“Bevvie?” She turned towards her father’s voice- _she had never told the manager that nickname oh my god it’s him it’s him it’_ s- Her manager stood in front of the cars register, soaked with blood. Her dress was dripping. It began to flow from her eyes. “Is something wrong?” 

 

“Is something wrong?” 

 

_“Is something wrong?”_

 

“Is something wrong?” Beverly sat straight up, quivering like an arrow, letting out a cry of fear. 

 

Eddie jerked back, falling off the bed. “Ouch.” 

 

“Beverly?” Ben stood up from his desk and crossed the room, sitting next to her and laying a hand on her thigh. “Are you okay?”

 

Beverly blinked at him. She looked down. She was sitting in Ben’s bed. She looked up, into his worried blue eyes. 

 

“Yeah,” She tried, but all that came out was a squeak. She cleared her throat. “Yeah,” She repeated, nodding. “I’m fine. I’m okay. It was a  **dream** ,” She added, somewhat disbelievingly. 

 

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “Only a dream.” 

 

Eddie stood, rubbing his butt with a grimace. “Glad you’re okay, Bev.” 

 

“Thanks,” Beverly said, and she tried to stand. Her legs gave out and she sighed against Eddie. He quickly caught her, a slight “oof” escaping his lips. 

 

“Maybe you’re not okay,” he managed, sounding strained. 

 

Ben helped her back into bed, smoothing her curls off of her forehead. “Get some rest,” He said. “You’ll be okay.” 

 

“You’ll be okay.” 

 

“ _You’ll be okay_.”

 

* * *

 

The feeling of breath fanning across his neck woke him up. It immediately jolted him awake, the breathing much too close to his artery and kicking on his fight or flight response. He tensed, and his eyes flew open. Blinding light filled his vision, so he closed them and tried again. 

 

Soft, golden curls. Steady breathing against his neck. The soft press of smooth skin against his chest. It was like something out of a  **dream**. 

 

Stan’s eyelashes fluttered, brushing against Bill’s neck. Bill blinked and looked down. They were both shirtless. He knew he was naked, but Stan.... 

 

He shifted, and Bill sucked in a startled breath. _Yep. Most definitely naked._

 

He didn’t think either of them were in any state to do anything last night, and if he concentrated enough, he could hazily remember some making out. Undressing. Collapsing on the bed, and... 

 

Passing the fuck out. 

 

Bill cringed a little. Great. He’d just begun to expore his sexuality and his little ( _massive_ ) crush on a  _certain_ somebody and he’d gone and tried to sleep with him. Leave it to a Denbrough. 

 

The breathing stilled. Stan’s forehead creased, and his eyes fluttered open. 

 

His voice was thick with sleep when he spoke. “Bill?”

 

“Yeah,” Bill breathed. He didn’t try to move, keeping his arms circled around Stan and ankle hooked on his. 

 

“Shit.” Stan’s voice broke a little, and he sighed. The feeling of his breath on Bill’s neck sent tingles through his body. “Did we do anything?” 

 

“I don’t think so,” Bill said. He hesitated. “Well, I think we were going to. I do remember...”

 

_They were in the club. Stanley had been cutting glances at him since they’d ran into each other, and it was setting his veins on fire. Finally, after a few more drinks to loosen himself up- liquid courage- he’d finally said it._

_“You.”_

_Stan turned to him. His face creased. “What?”_

_In response, Bill pressed his mouth against Stan’s in a sloppy kiss._

_Stan looked at him. “Oh,” He breathed._

“A lot,” Bill finished lamely. 

 

“Yeah,” Stan said. They both sat in strangely comfortable silence for a moment. “I’m going to put some clothes on,” He said finally. 

 

Bill laughed. “Yeah.” 

 

———

 

Stan was positively gorgeous. He smiled up at Bill, a dimple peeking out. He smoothed his curls away from his face and looked back down at his book. They tumbled right back over, concealing his face from view, which made Bill a little pouty. He reached over and fixed them for Stan, who smiled again. Today was possibly the most he'd seen Stan smile ever, which made the next conversation a little... difficult. 

 

"Um, S-Stan?"

 

Stan rolled his eyes, smile still firm on his face, and closed the book, looking up. "Yeah?"

 

Bill felt a stab of preliminary guilt at that smile, knowing it would be gone in a moment. "Uh-about last night..."

 

His assumption had been correct- the smile dropped off his face, and Stan turned his entire body towards Bill. "Yeah?"

 

"I d-don't think, um... I'm n-not sh-sure I'm ready... f-f-for..." Bill trailed off, inwardly cursing.

 

"A relationship?" Stan finished, raising an eyebrow.

 

"Y-yeah." Bill nodded, dropping his gaze to his hands.  _Why is it I'm terrible with confrontation until I'm faced with a demon clown?_ The thought caught him off guard. 

 

_What clown?_

_What sewers?_

_What death?_

_What brother?_

_What friends?_

For a moment, he was entirely alone, had always been alone, but then Stan said, “Bill?” And he snapped out of the strange trance. 

 

Bill shook his head, the confusion fading the longer he looked at Stan. “Sorry.” 

 

“It’s okay,” Stan said. He took a deep breath, looked at his hands, then looked back up at Bill and laid a tentative hand on Bill’s knee, like he wasn’t sure if that wasn’t crossing a line. “I can wait,” Stan said, looking Bill square in the eyes. “I can wait as long as you need.” 

 

Bill smiled at him. “Th-Thank you.” 

 

Stan didn’t smile back. 

 

* * *

 

Eddie sat in the kitchen, thouroghly disturbed by Beverly’s behavior. When she’d opened her eyes, he could’ve sworn he saw- just for a moment- the reflection of a balloon in her eyes. 

 

But the memory quickly faded as his focus shifted. 

 

_Richie_. 

 

His mind hyperfocoused on the man as he entered the room. He was shirtless, and his hair was ruffled (from sleeping, Eddie knew, but it still looked like sex hair) and his bright blue eyes focused on Eddie. “Heya, Eds,” He said, and the nickname had never sounded more sexy (Okay, it had- once. But that was when he was a horny teenager, and Eddie didn’t count it). Not to mention he had his glasses off, which made him look like a fuckin’ supermodel. 

 

“Morning, ‘Chee.” And Richie stiffened, his jaw slackening slightly and eyes widening. Eddie chucked a little, embarrassed. “What? That’s a no on the nickname?” 

 

“Eddie,” Richie said seriously, “If I could see you, I’d drop to my knees and blow you right here.” 

 

“Yeah, right.” Eddie laughed. Richie’s serious look make his laughter awkwardly taper off. “Really?” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. Richie nodded. Eddie licked his lips. “Good to know, then.” 

 

\---

 

Richie was making Eddie uncomfortable. Not in a bad way- in a very, very good way, which was almost worse. 

 

He hadn’t dropped a _‘Chee_ since the day before, too afraid Richie would maul him then and there. Beverly made a recovery from what they all decided was an awful hangover (she couldn’t remember the nightmare, and soon after, neither could they), and the next day they were to start class. 

 

The Losers all sat in a circle in their living room, which was bare except for Richie’s armchair. Richie sat on the chair, and Eddie sat on one of the fat arms, looking down at Beverly, who was at Richie’s feet. It had been years since her hair had been cut, aside from the occasional trim, but Eddie found himself admiring the short chop. 

 

They were animatedly discussing their classes set for tomorrow with a sort of animated optimism only people who haven’t actually experienced college yet have about it, hope brimming in their eyes.

 

Richie’s fingers trailed up Eddie’s thigh. “Mmhm.” He was participating in the conversation, but Eddie had snapped right out of reality the second Richie touched him, slipping right into a  **dream**. This can’t be real. It can’t be. 

 

“Mm,” Richie said, nodding. His fingers slid to the inside of Eddie’s thigh and he stifled a gasp. “C’mere, Eddie Spaghetti,” He said suddenly, and pulled Eddie into his lap. 

 

Eddie let out an indignant squeak. “Don’t...” he panted. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“Are you okay, Eddie?” Bill leaned forward, genuine concern crossing his face. “You look kind of red.”

 

“I’m fine,” Eddie squeaked, shifting back in Richie’s lap. Richie’s fingers clamped on his hips, and he bit his lip. 

 

“I dunno, I think Eddie Spaghetti could use some bed rest,” Richie teased, tightening his grip on Eddie’s hips. 

 

“I already told you... don’t-” Richie cut him off rather effectively by tossing Eddie over his shoulder and carrying him down the hall to their room. 

 

Richie tossed Eddie onto his bed, ignoring his protests, and leaned over him. 

 

“‘Chee?” Eddie’s voice was soft and hesitant. 

 

Richie was not. He slammed into Eddie’s mouth. The kiss was violent, knashing teeth and a quick, exploring tongue. It was over as soon as it started, then Richie was at the door. 

 

“Sweet dreams, Eddie-bear,” Richie cooed, and then he was gone, leaving Eddie alone in his room, staring at the ceiling. 

 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie told the empty room, out of habit. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

School had barely started, and Mike already hated it. 

 

His first teacher was awful. He fell asleep during his own lecture, dismissed class half an out early, and Mike hadn’t learned anything he didn’t.

 

The second one was alright- at least she taught stuff, even if he was pretty sure she was hitting on him. 

 

The class he shared with Bill- creative writing- got real interesting, real fast. It became quickly clear he didn’t agree with anything the teacher said, and it was extremely hard to focus with Stan chuckling behind him, watching Bill’s agitated movements with almost sardonic amusement. 

 

“School sucks,” Eddie complained, passing the takeout box to the left. They’d ordered a shit ton of food and were sharing the boxes, which wasn’t a first and certainly wouldn’t be the last. Mike passed him the orange chicken, and he stabbed his fork into the box. “I swear the Nutrition teacher acts exactly like my Mom.” 

 

“Good ol’ Mrs. K,” Richie sighed in fake nostalgia. “God rest her soul.” 

 

Eddie glared at him, and Richie winked. “My mom’s not dead, dumbass,” He said. 

 

“Will be soon, bet your fur,” Richie said, doing an exaggerated impression of a heavy southern accent. 

 

“Stop,” Eddie whined, but he was smiling. 

 

Richie poked him in the side, and he dissolved into shrieking laughter. 

 

Ben and Mike exchanged a look. 

 

* * *

 

 

Soon after Richie and Eddie retreated into their room, just long enough to be sure they weren’t returning, Stan turned to Mike. “So,” He said almost conversationally. “How much you wanna bet they’re fucking?” 

 

Mike choked on his chow mein. “What?” 

 

Stan nodded, smirking. “You heard me.”

 

“They’re not fucking,” Mike protested. “No, ew.” 

 

“Yeah they are,” Bev argued. “Definitely. Have been for a while now, I bet.” 

 

“No,” Ben protested, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. They want to, but I don't think they are.” 

 

“I don’t wanna picture Eddie fucking anyone,” Mike said, a bit distressed. 

 

“Dude, you should’ve heard what Richie told me the other night,” Bill began. 

 

Beverly shrieked. “No! No, no, no!” She dropped her takeout and ran, screaming “LALALALA!” the entire way. Her door slammed shut, and there was a pause.

 

“Fine,” Bill said with a shrug. “They’re still fucking.” 

 

“Now?” Mike asked incredulously. “I don’t think so.” 

 

“Richie could never be that quiet,” Ben agreed. They all fell silent. Nothing. No noise. 

 

“How much you wanna bet?” Stan asked, raising one eyebrow. 

 

Ben and Mike looked at each other. Mike leaned through his wallet and dumped all his loose change in a small pile on the floor. Ben followed suit, and after a few minutes of counting, Stan said, “$12.32? Really?” 

 

Mike just raised an eyebrow. Stan sighed and whipped out his wallet, laying a ten and a five out. “Make it an even $15, and you’ve got a bet.” 

 

Mike grinned and dug out a few dollar bills, taking back the $0.32.

 

“Challenge accepted.” Stan rose and twisting his head, cracking his neck. The he crept down the hall and gently pushed open the door to Eddie and Richie’s room. He lined his eye up with the crack. After a few moments, he returned. His face was unreadable as he perched next to Bill. 

 

Finally, he looked up. “Does a blowjob count as sex?” 

 

“What?” Ben cried. Mike choked on air. 

 

“I mean,” Bill reasoned, “It is called oral sex.” 

 

“I need proof,” Mike insisted. “I don’t believe you.”

 

Stan looked up, and the haunted look in his eyes made Mike shut his mouth. 

 

“This isn’t real,” Ben said finally. “This is a  **dream**.” 

 

* * *

 

Richie panted, laying his head on Eddie’s shoulder. “Dear lord,” He said, clasping his hands. “If this is a  **dream** , wake me up now.” 

 

Eddie giggled. “Stop it, asshole.” He shoved Richie’s shoulder. “Get dressed. I’m going to go make ramen.” 

 

Eddie rose. His olive-toned back flexed under the dim lighting of their room as he bent to pull on a pair of sweatpants, and a bead of sweat rolled down his spine. 

 

Richie leaned forward and licked it off, causing Eddie to shriek. 

 

“Ew!” He giggled some more and stood. “Did you just lick my back?” 

 

“Mmhm,” Richie said lazily. “Those sweatpants are totally mine, by the way.” 

 

They were, in fact, Richie’s, and they were the pair before all of ~~this~~ (whatever it was) happened. 

 

And it was extremely hot. 

 

“Alright, Spaghetti-o,” Richie drawled. “I’m comin’.” 

 

Eddie winked at him over his shoulder, then sauntered out of the room. Richie waited a moment, then let out a long groan and pushed himself up to a standing position, fumbled for some boxers, and pulled them on. Post-sex bliss slowed down his thought process, and he struggled with them for a moment before managing to actually be dressed and leave the room. 

 

He slipped out of their room and shut the door behind him. Immediately, he heard quiet voices and the sound of water bubbling gently. 

 

Richie quickly realized he’s forgotten his glasses inside the room- rather then go back for them, he stumbled down the hall, feeling for the doorway into the kitchen. 

 

“‘Sup, Eds?” He asked, squinting at the dark-haired blob in front of the oven. 

 

Eddie sighed. “Richie, you dumbass, where are your glasses?”

 

Richie shrugged, and swiveled his head to peer at the person who was sitting on the counter. “Stan?” He guessed. 

 

“Yep,” Stan agreed. “Hey, how many fingers am I holding up?” Part of his blob broke away, and Richie sighed. 

 

“I know you’re flipping me off, Stanley, you’re not exactly being original,” Richie said. 

 

Eddie barked a laugh, and Richie walked over, wrapped his arms around his waist, and nuzzled his face into Eddie’s shoulder. 

 

“Richie, you’re gonna-” Eddie cut himself off and sighed. “It’s pointless, isn’t it?”

 

“Mmmhm.” Richie pressed a kiss to the inside of Eddie’s throat, eliciting a squeak, then he slid off, fumbling around with the cupboards for a moment before pulling out a glass and filling it up with water. 

 

He drank a little, half-listening to Stan and Eddie’s conversation. 

 

“What the fuck, guys? Are you making ramen?” 

 

“Good evening to you too, Miss Marsh,” Richie said in a fake cheerful British accent. He set down the cup, turned, and cheerfully pumped her arm up and down. “It’s a plesha, missus, a plesha.” 

 

Beverly sighed heavily and extracted her hand from Richie’s grip. “Where are your glasses, dumbass?“

 

Richie shrugged. “On the floor somewhere, I think.” 

 

“Stay here. I’ll get them for you.” She ducked down the hall and went into Richie and Eddie’s room. A few moments passed. Eddie turned off the oven and poured the ramen into two bowls. Stan adjusted his watch. Richie began eating the ramen. 

 

Beverly returned, glasses hanging loosely from her fingers. Richie inspected her face for a hint of disgust or shock. The glasses had not been on the floor; no, they were somewhere in the sheets of Eddie’s bed, and their room probably reeked of sex. 

 

Her face remained impassive, and she pushed the glasses onto Richie’s nose. “Here.” 

 

Her fuzzy features became clear; her slightly crinkled gray-green eyes, her soft pink smiling lips, her firey red hair, and her pale freckles. 

 

Richie gasped, blinking several times over. “It’s a miracle! I can see!” 

 

“Beep-beep, asshole,” The other three chourosed, and they laughed. Richie smiled. All was well. 

 

* * *

 

Stan tapped his fingers against the desk.  _One-two-three-four one-two-three-four one-two three-four._  Pause.  _One-two-three-four one-two-three-four one-two three-four._  Pause. A glare from his surrounding classmates. He felt a little guilty, even though he couldn’t help it. He’d picked up the nervous habit as a child, soon after- he paused, frowning. _Soon after what?_ For some reason, all he could pull up was the hazy taste of medicine and the laundromat’s in Derry. He frowned and shook his head, resuming his tapping. _One-two-three-four one-two-three-four._  The bell rings, signifying the end of class, and Stanley was never more happy to shove his papers in his bag (carefully, so they didn’t crumple) and walk with as much dignity as he could manage at top speed. 

 

He bobbed and weaved through the crowd, ducking under swinging arms and squeezing through chatting groups of students. 

 

Finally, he made it out of the crowded building and into the parking lot. He climbed into his car and sighed in relief, resting his head on the steering wheel. He slid the key in the ignition and started the car just as a light rain began to fall, pattering against his windshield in a gentle melody. 

 

It seemed familiar, as if in a dream, or a distant memory. He seized this memory, determined to remember. 

 

His forehead creased and his head began to pound, but the memory began to form. 

 

* * *

  

 

_Stanley was eleven, maybe twelve. He sat on the edge of Bill’s bed, thoroughly uncomfortable. Bill himself was on the floor, staring at his hands. They had just returned from Georgie’s funeral, and Bill was crying. Stanley didn’t know what to do. He was feeling to many emotions at once._

_“I’m sorry, Bill,” He said finally. “And I mean it, not like those other guys who just say it ‘cause they’re supposed to.”_

_Bill looked up, his face eerily blank. “Thank you, Stan,” He said finally, and the fact that he didn’t stutter at all made it all the more worse._

_Somewhat fittingly, rain began to fall._

 

* * *

 

Stanley sat up in shock as the memory concluded.  _Georgie_! He hadn’t thought about Georgie unprompted in a long, long time. He’d hardly remembered his death until Bill had woken up yelling and brought it all back to the surface. Even now, he struggled to remember what had happened to Georgie. 

 

 

_He... he..._  the memory escaped him, floating away like a balloon in the wind, and Stanley blinked, confused, then drove away.


End file.
